Sunday
But, where is home? I have so many different homes. So many places I love, so many
places that, at the end of the day, when I walk through the door, I
can say, "I'm home." Perhaps this is why I'm always "heading
home" and never reaching it: my loyalties and my love
are spread too far and too thin. I'm pulled in every
direction and I don't know what to call home--
I don't know what plane to take.
To the USA? Japan? Italy? England?
A life scattered across the globe,
stopping ever so briefly
to unpack and
start again
in each
new
world.
YOU ARE READING
Post Meridiem
PoetryI'd do anything to save myself. Hell, I'd even change the world.
